


A Cry in the Night

by twistedchick



Series: Identity [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Bakery, Gen, Kidfic, enhanced hearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when there's no crime, Jim can't turn off his hearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cry in the Night

It's a good thing there's no actual constitutional right to privacy in the United States.

If it existed, I'd be in serious legal trouble.

I get into enough trouble as it is, some of it helpful and some of it a pain in the butt. I can lie awake for an hour after a rainstorm, absolutely certain that the rain dripping off the outside corner of the roof is also dripping inside the loft because I hear it so clearly. It will bug me enough that I have to get up six times to make sure the floor's really dry, the window's really shut, and the roof really isn't leaking.

Blair's helped a lot with the senses, more than he'll ever know. The problem is, the more he helps me control volume and intensity, the more sensitive they become. Instead of controlling on a scale of one to ten, there are days when I'm on a scale of one to a hundred.

At times, it's gotten even more difficult, when a sense goes -- not unfocused, that's the wrong word. Maybe the analogy of the radio is still the best. Instead of having these narrow bands of sensation, I'm getting the whole electromagnetic spectrum, including infrared and ultraviolet, radio-television and shortwave and CB, on each sense. For all I know, I'm contacting ET's people as well. Damned if I know what I'm telling them.

It doesn't mean I'm going to zone out when this happens, though that's tempting if only to give me a rest. Overstimulation of one sense leads to catatonia; it's my own personal version of autism. In my case, Blair can talk me out of it, or bring me out with the touch of his hand on my arm.

But back to privacy.

It's not just that I can hear sounds up to a mile away and can sort through the layers of sound to find the one that I need to break a case. In a way, that's easy. It's all there, it just needs to be sorted, and the needle in this haystack always is a lot sharper than the hay.

It's that I hear everything in that mile, and especially in the few hundred feet closest to wherever I am.

All the time.

Especially at night, when the traffic noises are gone and the outside world is a little quieter.

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful every day that I can hear a round being chambered before anyone else, so I can get people out of the line of fire and take out the shooter. I'm grateful, also, that Blair's been able to help me train my hearing so that I know what I'm listening to, and it's not just an undistinguished mass of sound.

Actually, that's what the white noise machine generates -- an undistinguished mass of sound. It's not precisely restful, but it's both regular and irregular enough to be relaxing and to distract me from whatever else is happening.

Because normally, for me, a full concert symphony of noises surrounds me all the time, and there I am, somewhere between the trumpets and the kettledrums, without my earplugs.

I could live happily the rest of my life without knowing how many times each of the other tenants in the building scratches himself or herself in his or her sleep. I'd love not to know what's Mr. and Mrs. Juarez argue about in fierce whispers at 3 a.m., or what position Madeline Filmore has persuaded Gary Talford to try on Saturday night. I've never met them; they're one floor down and five apartments over into the next building, but I can hear them as clearly as if they were in the loft.

That's one reason I watch so much sports on television. I can pretend some of what's spilling over into my mind is just crowd noise, not the real people around me.

At least, I used to.

Until the other night, when I heard the little girl crying.

After the Jags game ended, I'd been watching the late movie; Blair was out with some of his friends, and I was enjoying having the place to myself after a long week with a heavy caseload. It seemed like I'd never get to the weekend, not even Friday, but finally Simon took a look at all of us who'd gone four nights with little to no sleep and told us to get the hell home and recover and he'd see us Monday. And we went.

The movie was one of those eighties things that I'd missed by being out of the country, specifically, in Peru. It wasn't bad. In some ways, it was a lot like taking a crash course in American culture of that time; it was filling me in on some things I'd missed, and even if it was fairly dopey in spots I could watch it for those little clues and relax a bit.

Then I heard her.

I knew that kind of crying, the quiet sounds you make into your pillow when your heart is breaking. She couldn't have been very old at all, from the sound of her voice, about the same age I was when my mother left and the insecure emotional world I'd had until then crumbled into dust and emotional coldness. Stephen would sneak into my room when he heard me, tears on his own face, and we'd curl up together and cry because we missed her, even if our father didn't.

She didn't have anyone like Stephen to snuggle up to her and let her know she wasn't completely alone. I could tell.

I ached with wanting to hold her myself, wanting to tell her that things might get better later on, that she didn't have to hurt forever. But how could I? I didn't know her. She didn't know me. I didn't even know her face, or her name. What could I possibly do?

I turned off the sound on the movie; watching the flickering screen would keep me from zoning. And I let my hearing loose, let it wander through all the sounds around me, sorting them out, locating them in space within the building and the block and the space beyond that, as far as I could go without straining. I knew she wasn't far away.

Not this building. I knew all the tenants here. None of them had a small child. Next building over -- nothing. Try the other side. Across the top of the roof, down two floors. There she was, on the first floor, in the apartment behind the bakery in the building on the side street. About four years old, crying into her pillow.

Could I piggyback any other senses onto hearing when I had no other contact?

I had to try, just to make sure she was physically well. If she'd been abused, if she'd been beaten or hurt, I'd make up some reason to get over there and get her to Child Protective Services, and whoever'd hurt her would face the combined anger of all of Major Crimes. Not to mention me.

I closed my eyes, visualizing a room I'd never been in by the way the sounds she made echoed faintly off the walls and furnishings. It was a small back bedroom, with a little furniture, not much. A single bed, too big for a small child; an inexpensive dresser with a hard-polished finish, not as soft as wood, a non-upholstered chair of some kind, maybe a desk or trunk or box to hold toys. She was curled up under the covers, crying herself to sleep, her breathing ragged and despairing, but from what I could tell without actually seeing or touching her she wasn't in any physical pain.

I couldn't diagnose the causes of emotional pain as easily as physical, but I knew where I'd be buying bread and pastries for Sunday brunch this weekend.

She drew a rattling breath and I felt the tears coming into my own eyes, remembering how that felt, remembering how alone it was when my mother wasn't coming any more to tuck me in at night and kiss me before I fell asleep.

I'd had Stephen, then, and he'd had me, and even if we'd drifted apart for twenty years we were starting to get back together again. We'd never lose that connection.

She didn't sound as if she had anyone at all. Still, here I was, hurting along with her.

Blair says that when the senses are extended as far as we've gone with them, him anchoring me and me venturing into the unknown, the borderline between reception and transmission starts to fade. Sometimes I know what he's thinking before he says a word. Sometimes he tells me the ends of my own sentences, even when I haven't completely worked out what I'm saying. It's not just muscle reading, which anyone can learn to do; it's deeper and more complex than that, and simpler.

If I let the feelings go out with the senses, the connection can happen sometimes.

It's my job to serve and protect the residents of Cascade, WA., and that includes small anguished children.

I closed my eyes and let go of the sight of the movie, but didn't turn it off. I rubbed my hands on the couch, feeling its texture. A thought came to me, suddenly, and I went upstairs and got a small toy that Blair said he'd had since he was very small, a carved wooden tugboat. I don't know why, but it felt good in my hands and I knew it would anchor me better than the couch or the television, maybe because it had been Blair's so long.

I came back down to the couch, got comfortable, held the toy in my hands, and let my hearing extend back to the little girl. Holding the boat in my hands, an amulet against the darkness, I listened to her quiet sobs, and felt the lump rising in my own throat, and let my emotions and the comfort I ached to be able to give her travel down that invisible path, that narrow strip of sensation that connected us whether she knew it or not. I sent her all the comfort I would have given her if she'd been within reach, a sense of arms to hold her that didn't want anything from her except for her to be content.

Her breathing changed, caught, as if someone had come into her room, someone she cared about desperately, and she stopped sobbing. When she breathed again, she was more relaxed, boneless and exhausted but quietly resting, finally falling asleep.

I stayed on the couch all night, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, keeping watch, just in case she woke up alone in the dark again.

When the sun hit me in the eye, the next morning, I realized I'd actually gotten some sleep. I was still there on the couch, still holding the little tugboat loosely in my hand. I rubbed my arm across my face and listened; Blair was home, asleep in his room. It was about eight a.m., Sunday morning, an hour I seldom see awake unless I've been up all night at work. I stretched, went upstairs, put the little boat back on the shelf where Blair asked me to keep it, took a shower, shaved, dressed and headed downstairs to go for a run.

For once it was a clear morning, a rare thing in Cascade. The only clouds haunted the tips of the mountains in the distance, and from the direction of the wind I didn't think they'd come this way. I ran five miles easily, not hurrying, enjoying the bright perfection of dew on the grass and the clean-washed air after yesterday's rains. And, after I finished my circuit, I ended up at the bakery around the corner.

It was a small, family-owned place, full of sweet smells and spices and things I didn't know the names of but wanted to taste. I'd been there once or twice to buy bread when we ran out, and I knew they did their own baking. This morning, the only person I saw was a woman, in her early sixties or so, who was stocking the shelves and who smiled at me when I came in.

"Buenos dias, señora," I said, "everything smelled so good outside that I had to come in."

"Buenos dias, señor. Gracias." She looked me over. "I think I know you, no?"

"I live upstairs, around the corner." I pointed in the general direction of the loft.

"But you work with the police, I think." She wasn't afraid or upset by this, just sorting out where I fitted in some kind of classification.

I nodded. "I'm a detective with the city police department. Jim Ellison."

"Ah! I'm Margarita Diaz. And you work with the smaller one, with the beautiful hair." She made a gesture in the air that looked exactly like the outline of Blair's hair when it was down on his shoulders. "Right? Yes, I know you. You were there when my son's car was hijacked, and you took him to the hospital. Alberto Diaz, six months ago or so. You remember?"

That had been a nasty case, a series of violent carjackings during which several people had been killed by the thugs who were stealing their cars. Her son had been one of the lucky ones; he'd been beaten badly, but he'd recovered and had testified at the trial that put his attackers away for a good long time. "I remember. How is your son?"

"Very well, thank you. He's back at work, and he's even gotten a promotion since then. I've wanted to tell you for a long time that I'm very grateful for what you did for him, but I didn't really know how to find you." She hesitated, then said, "I would have come down to the police station to thank you, but in the country where I'm from that might have made my family a target for more bad things, so I did not."

"It's all right," I said. "But, just so you know, I live at 852 Prospect, apt. 307, and if you ever need to get hold of me you can just come there. It's all right. My partner lives there too, and he'll help you as well."

She smiled. "So, what can I sell you this morning, señor?"

"I don't know the names of everything, but how about two of those, and two of those --"

As she started to take the pastries from the glass case and put them into bags for me, a small voice behind her said, "Mima?" She put down the pastries, with an apologetic glance at me, and picked up the child who'd come through the door behind her.

"Buenos dias, Francesca. Are you feeling a little better today?" She turned to me. "This is my granddaughter, Señor Ellison. Can you say hello, Francesca?"

Francesca looked at me, all dark sad eyes and tangled curly hair. "Hello."

"Hello, Francesca. It's very nice to meet you."

"Would you like Mima to make you some hot chocolate?" Mrs. Diaz said, bouncing the child on her hip. Francesca nodded, her eyes on me as if she were trying to decide something. She tugged at her grandmother's arm, and Mrs. Diaz put her down again. Francesca came around the counter to peek at me, and then to come all the way around to look up at me with a slightly puzzled expression.

I know I'm too tall for someone that size to look at without getting a crick in the neck, so I got down in a crouch to put myself more at her eye level. She looked me over, without a word, then came over and kissed my cheek, a delicate butterfly kiss, and ran back around the counter and into the back room again.

When I stood up again, Mrs. Diaz was smiling at me, a little surprised. "You're a good man, Señor Ellison. It's hard for the little one to trust people right now."

I didn't want to pry. It was obvious the child was wanted and loved, very much. "Is there something wrong that I can help with?"

"Nobody can help, señor." She put the brown bag of pastries on the counter next to the cash register and leaned her arms on the counter, looking suddenly much older than her years. "She's the daughter of my other son, Felipe, and his wife. They died in a terrible car accident two months ago. It took a long time to get her here; we're her only relatives, but the paperwork between countries is difficult, you understand? She arrived yesterday, and everything is new, and she misses her parents."

"No brothers or sisters?"

Her eyes were bleak. "Not any more; they were all in the car. She was the only survivor." She swallowed. "She was thrown clear, into a sand bank, when the car hit the trees."

"I'm sorry." No wonder she'd been crying as if her heart had broken. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Diaz. I lost my mother when I wasn't much older than she is, but I still had my little brother." And my father, for what good that did, but I wasn't going to bring him into this.

She nodded. "Then you do understand."

God only knows why I said what came out of my mouth next; I sure don't. Maybe Blair is rubbing off on me too much, after more than three years. "If you ever need anyone to watch her, or to take her to the park, let me know. I'd be honored."

She was looking at me, a little curiously. "You have children, señor?"

I shook my head, regretful for the first time in a long time that things had gone so badly with Carolyn. "No. I'm divorced. We'd wanted them, but it didn't work out." A smile came to my lips. "Unless you count my partner..."

Mrs. Diaz smiled and nodded. "He's good for you, I think. I used to see you around and you looked like a hard man. Now you look --" she searched for a word, "more comfortable." She nodded again, more to herself than to me. "Come and visit her, when you can. I think you remember enough of what it was like that you would not hurt my granddaughter. And I trust you, which is more than I would say of most of the police I've ever met."

I paid her for the pastries, and as I was leaving I said, "Goodbye, Francesca. It was nice to see you," to the curtained doorway. A little face peeked through, considered, and said, "Adios," and disappeared again.

Blair was awake when I got back, and making coffee. "Hey, man, that must have been a great movie last night. You were totally out of it when I got in."

"What time did you get in, Sherlock? And how was the party?" I put the bag down on the kitchen island and got a plate from the cupboard for the pastries.

He shrugged. "Nothing special, but nothing bad. Michael's going off on a dig at Chaco Canyon in Arizona, so we wanted to have a good-luck bash for him. He'll be there most of the next year."

"Arizona?" For some reason it hadn't occurred to me that there were archeological digs that close to home.

"Yeah. It's a huge site; you can see it from the air. Lots of good work's been done there, but because it's on reservation lands you need special permission to work. Mike's really lucky; he's going to be working on a dig run by a Hopi archeologist -- really Hopi, not just someone who studies Hopi culture -- so it's like his way is paved to the promised land."

"Well, good." I took the plate of pastries to the table. Most of them were still warm from the oven, and I wondered how early Mrs. Diaz or someone had to get up to bake them. "Ahem, Blair, I was wondering..." How could I bring this up without having him go apeshit giving me more tests? "There's this girl..."

He'd been getting ready to pour the coffee into mugs, but he put the pot down at the word "girl" and turned around with an odd smile. "This girl?"

"It's not what you think," I said quickly. It never matters. It's always not what he thinks, and he still ends up being right anyway. I gave up on going at it the long way. "You know the bakery around the corner, where I got these?"

"Yeah. Alberto's mom and sister run the place. Good food."

It figured that he knew them. He probably already had Alberto's sister's phone number in his black book, unless she was a lot more resistant to the Sandburg charm than most women.

"Well, Mrs. Diaz's granddaughter just arrived to live with them. Her parents and her brothers and sisters died in a car crash, and she's not very old, and really sweet and," I drew a deep breath.

"And?" He was following along as if he were a bloodhound and the trail had just taken a sudden jog through a stream he wasn't expecting.

"And I told her we'd be glad to babysit if she needed the help. Anytime." I put as much pleading into my expression as I could manage. "If you don't mind."

He leaned on the counter. "Yeah. No problem. I thought for a moment you were going to tell me you were dating Alberto's sister or something."

"Why?" I grinned at him, relieved that he'd agreed to help with Francesca. "Is she on your A list already?"

"No, man, that's not it. Maria is great, but she's engaged to this absolute hulk that makes Simon look my size, and I so didn't want you getting in their way. She's had a tough time, getting here from Guatemala and all, and I like her, but not like that." He finally poured the coffee. "So, how'd you know about the little girl?"

I can't hide anything from him. Why do I try? "I heard her crying last night."

"You heard her. All the way from there? It must've been pretty quiet around here for a Saturday night."

"Not particularly." I took the cup of coffee he was holding out for me. "But I couldn't just ignore it."

"Of course you couldn't. It's a Sentinel thing." He picked up a sweet roll and took a bite. "Tell me what happened."

So I told him, all of it, and he listened and thought while I was talking. When I was finished, he said, with an odd note in his voice, "You used the boat as an anchor? I wouldn't have thought of that."

"It felt like you," I said, at a loss to explain just why it had worked.

He sat back in the chair and finished the sweet roll, and reached for an empanada. When he had it on his plate he stared at it for a moment. "I never told you about that boat, did I?"

"No." He'd handed to me the night he returned to the loft, after Alex had put him in the fountain, and he's said I'd have to trust him on it, so I'd never asked.

"I think I can talk about it a little."

"You don't have to."

"I think I need to." He finished his coffee and got refills for both of us before he sat down again. "When I was small, every time we moved somewhere, if I played with that boat in the bathtub it became home. Does that make sense?"

I nodded. I could guess where he was going, but I wanted to be sure. "Did you play with it when you moved here?"

"Oh, yeah, man. One afternoon, the week after you said I didn't have to leave, I had a two-hour bath and put it in the tub with me, just like when I was little." He cocked a grin at me. "Doesn't mean it's not your place, but it made me feel at home."

I could easily imagine him with that toy boat, looking like he'd shucked off twenty-six years of life experience. "And now?"

Blair shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "I don't take baths any more. Not since--" He looked down at the pastries, and back up at me with such an expression of naked pain on his face that the usual mask didn't work. "Well, I'm already home. I live here, with you. I don't think I'm going anywhere else." He paused, lost in thought, and I let it go on as long as he wanted. "I think it's time for the boat to be passed on."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He nodded hard, his hair bouncing on his shoulders. "It'll be a long time before I want to take another bath; I'm sort of not into water right now." A thought occurred to him, and he shifted a little in the chair. "That doesn't mean I won't go to the beach with you when you want to go surfing, Jim. I just won't be getting out into the water."

I put a hand over his. "That's all right, Chief. Really. I don't care if you ever get your toes wet in the ocean again, as long as you're at peace with it."

"Well, I'm not, yet. But I'm getting there. That has to count."

"It counts." It more than counted. I remembered hearing him crying in the shower after he came back, his heartbeat racing and his breathing uneven, trying to stay calm. Things had gradually become easier for him, over the past few months, but they were never simple. He didn't shake when he saw the fountain at Rainier any more, but the sight of other small bodies of water still made his heart rate spike until he took a deep breath and consciously coaxed it back down.

"Do you think Francesca would like the boat? If I told her it was mine, and why, so she wouldn't think it was just some old second-hand thing?

It wasn't what I'd expected him to say, but it felt right.

After brunch he went into his room and found some wrapping paper with a bright design that he said was taken from Navajo blankets, and wrapped up the little wooden boat in it. He put on a big gold ribbon, and nodded to me, and we went down and around the corner to the bakery again.

Mrs. Diaz was there behind the counter, with Francesca playing at one of the small caf‚ tables in the corner. "Hi, Mrs. Diaz," Blair said. "You know, you have the best empanadas in the world."

"Thank you. Did you interrupt your day off just to tell me that?" She smiled at him. "Buenos tardes, Senor Ellison. It's good to see you again. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Actually, we're here for something else," Blair said. He held up the small package. "Jim told me about your granddaughter, and I thought she might like a welcome-to-Cascade present, if it's all right with you?" He looked a little uncertain, as if he should have thought to ask first.

Mrs. Diaz smiled at him. "It's fine with me. Why don't you ask Francesca yourself?"

I felt a tug on my jeans, and crouched. Francesca stood near me. She pointed to herself. "'Ceska." She touched my arm with a small finger and looked inquisitive.

"Jim," I said. I patted Blair's leg and he came down to kneel next to me. "Blair."

"Jim," she said, pointing, and I nodded. "Blair." She wasn't too strong on the "L" sound, so it came out closer to "Bear," but it was definitely for him, and he relaxed and gave her a warm smile.

Blair held the package out to her, and she took it hesitantly, looking up at her grandmother until Mrs. Diaz nodded and smiled. She unwrapped it slowly, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. When she brought out the boat, she tilted her head sideways, considering it.

"Can I tell you a story, Francesca?" Blair settled himself down on the floor, cross-legged, and touched the boat with a finger. "When I was very small, smaller than you are, I used to move around a lot. I lived in a lot of places with my mom. But I always had that boat with me, and I'd play with it in the bathtub, and I'd know that wherever I was, I was home." He glanced up at Mrs. Diaz, who wiped a tear from her eye defiantly and shrugged at him to continue. Francesca gave him her grave attention. "What do you call Mrs. Diaz?" He indicated who he meant.

"Mima." She looked puzzled.

"Your Mima told Jim that you were coming to live here, and that you didn't know a lot of people. So I wanted you to have my boat, so that you always have something that's yours to play with, wherever you are. Is that okay with you?" He glanced up at Mrs. Diaz. "How much does she understand?"

"All of it, I think. She's just a bit shy." Mrs. Diaz showed a wavering smile. "I'll get you some coffee, on the house."

Francesca inspected the boat as if she were investing in the Queen Mary. Blair watched her turn it in her hands, and smiled. "Do you like it?"

She nodded solemnly, With great care she reached forward to kiss Blair's cheek. Then she turned, put her arms around my neck and tugged on my collar. The order was unmistakable.

"You want me to pick you up?" I asked her. She nodded. "All right." I stood up, ignoring aching thigh muscles, and picked her up to sit on my arm. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. She put an arm around my neck and pointed to the back room. "I think I've been named the designated driver, Chief."

Francesca tugged anxiously at my collar and I nodded and carried her through the door to the back, past the bakery's kitchen and into a small light-blue room behind it. Blair and Mrs. Diaz followed. She pointed for me to put her down by the small bed, and she went to the dresser and got a picture to show me. It had to be her family: a young couple with two daughters and two sons, Francesca herself as the youngest child in the middle.

Francesca pointed at herself, and at the photo. "Familia." She pointed up, and looked at her grandmother, who nodded, with tears in her eyes.

"Yes, 'Ceska. Family in heaven."

The little girl nodded. She went to her grandmother and hugged her. "Mima. Familia."

"Yes."

Francesca launched into a long, involved conversation in a Spanish dialect with her grandmother, who nodded from time to time. I glanced at Blair and got a confused shrug; it was too fast for either of us to follow. Then she pointed at me, and at Blair.. "Jim. B'air. Familia."

What? I got down on Francesca's level. "What, sweetheart?"

"Su. You. Familia." And a longer sentence I didn't quite catch, until I glanced up at Mrs. Diaz for a translation.

"My granddaughter says you hug like family, so you have to be family." Oh, there was amusement in her voice, but also a kind of pride, and happiness. Definitely happiness.

I looked back at Francesca, all of four years old and as determined and stubborn as Blair. "You sure, Francesca?"

She nodded. I could see in her eyes that somehow she knew what I'd done last night, knew beyond any language, and she was telling me it was all right.

"If it's all right with you?" I looked up at Mrs. Diaz again.

"I think you'd better call me Margarita, since my Francesca says you're family now."

"I don't want to presume," I started, but she shushed me with a waved hand.

"You're not presuming. I'll tell you if you are." She went to Francesca. "I think it's time for your nap, nina. Say goodbye to Jim and Blair for now."

Francesca hadn't let go of Blair's little boat this whole time, and she didn't let go of it now. She came over to me, hugged my neck and kissed my cheek, and then went to Blair for the same thing. His eyes were bright with tears he wouldn't let loose until we'd left, and he hugged her close and closed his eyes as he did so, and then let her go. She went to lie down on her bed, and put the little boat next to her pillow where she could touch it any time, and smiled at us, and closed her eyes as her grandmother pulled a crocheted coverlet over her.

We made our way back to the front room before any of us said anything.

"Thank you," Margarita said, simply. She put her hand on Blair's arm, and he turned and hugged her. "I think she'll be a lot better now."

"I should be thanking you," he said. "Really."

"You can tell me some other time," she said, as he drew back. "Come whenever you want. And you, Jim..." Margarita looked up at me.

Words aren't my strong suit. They're Blair's tools, not mine. "Any time you need me, just call. Any time," I said. I took out a business card and scribbled the unlisted numbers on it. "These aren't public numbers, but if you need to call, do it. Or just come and knock on the door. And if you want some time off, I'd be glad to take care of her for you."

We stayed for half an hour, drinking coffee. Margarita talked a little about her home, and Blair told her about where he'd traveled in her homeland, and they laughed at the idea that they both knew some of the same people and the same gossip and jokes. I didn't say much; I was still feeling little 'Ceska's arm around my neck and her calm assurance that I was family to her.

After we left, we headed over toward the park again, just wandering. Blair was silent for a while, but rallied after a couple of blocks. "It makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Just tell me, Chief, you're not going to turn this into a series of new tests, right?"

He flashed a grin up at me. "Are you kidding? I won't have to. Francesca will do that for me; all I have to do is be there and observe the results."

I groaned. "I can just see it now. Another chapter in your dissertation, right? Sentinel with a heart of mush."

Blair shook his head. "No, that one I'm keeping to myself. Don't want to ruin your tough-guy image, right?"

"Right," I said. I nodded to the kids on the park bench with the ice cream cones, and petted their dog, and we kept on walking toward the merry-go-round, where Blair found a group of the younger kids he met when Brown was coaching children's soccer last year and he and I took them for rides on the painted horses for an hour, just as we always do whenever a few of them are around.


End file.
